


Season of the Unexpected

by thequietscribe



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Halloween, Hot Chocolate, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 08:05:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16471874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequietscribe/pseuds/thequietscribe
Summary: Many people consider the Chesapeake Ripper their worst nightmare, but what would such a man fear?





	Season of the Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caeva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caeva/gifts).



> A gift for Caeva, whose conversation prompted this fic. Happy Halloween!
> 
> Thanks also go to my beta-reader Anthony, who kindly helped me polish it a bit more :)

His home is sparkling, filled with people who are here to delight in the senses, to mingle and marvel at what his home and his dinner table have to offer. They are dressed in their finest, whether that is to show their wealth or, in the case of Ms Komeda, their character. Across the room, he can hear the delicate laughter of Alana as she jokes with one of those she is speaking to, and he is pleased to have brought intelligent and interesting people together like this so that such occurrences happen between his guests. 

There will, of course, be time enough after dinner for more lively debate, when people are sated and relaxed, and alcohol has released a few more inhibitions, but for the moment he is content to look around and see that everything is as it should be. 

He taps on the edge of his wineglass, the sound of the crystal's tone bringing people's attentions to him as he guides them, effortlessly through to the dining room. The dinner table is resplendent in its offering, most of the food already there, and each place-setting perfect. He excuses himself to go and get the last of the dishes for everyone, checking the most delicate are not compromised by the hired staff, before returning through and taking his place at the top of the table. 

He stands there, his hands curling on the back of his chair, basking, just for a moment, in the adoration and compliments of his guests before he will speak. 

But then something catches his eye. Something out of place. 

It's a glimpse of white, nestled between the delicate roll of a napkin and plates. Too white to be bone, not any sheen to show it as being pearl. Unnatural white. Nothing, in other words, that should be on his table. 

It takes him a moment to fully comprehend what it is he is seeing, and as he does, the sight of it fills him with a deep-seated anger and alarm. Next to his fine porcelain plates, the pristine linen napkins, elegant placemats and the fine crystal glasses, sits a crude plastic spork. 

His gaze flickers to the person in that seat. They don't appear to have noticed. Are they going to be the target of his anger for bringing it here, or are they, like him, a victim of this atrocity? 

"Is this some kind of a joke?" The comment from the large rather overbearing gentleman from the Opera turns his attention, and it is with a dawning sort of horror that he can see that he too has a spork in front of him. Not merely one, but several, placed in a neat row where the silverware should be. 

How dare someone do this at his dinner party! He makes some placating comments to soothe his guests, delivered calmly and smoothly on instinct, though he couldn't say exactly what the words were, for his thoughts far more engaged by working out how to mitigate this social disaster, and who is to blame. As his gaze sweeps the table, it is with something that might be considered rigorously controlled panic, his heart beating far too loudly, that he sees now that every place setting has them. They sit there, the tool of the unwashed masses that are too lazy to use proper cutlery. They are not even well made pieces, but flimsy plastic that is as likely to break as it is to skewer food. 

How had they come upon his table? His mind works furiously to figure out how it could be, his usually eminently superior brain failing to understand. He wasn't gone from the room for long after they had entered, only a few moments. He tries to smooth over the situation, but his dinner is turning into a joke! This is unacceptable. The laughter and the condescending sneer of society as they indulge in their outrage as well as his humiliation, rather than his meal. 

He moves through to the kitchen, intent on getting the real cutlery from the drawer kept for that purpose, but as he opens it, instead of the beautifully crafted silverware that should be sitting there, the entire drawer is filled with sporks. 

He will take great delight in rendering whomever has done this to nothing. Perhaps he will keep them alive for days. Weeks. But that anger is chased, screaming, by the knowledge that his entire dinner is being compromised. The food, even now, is cooling past its best. He goes swiftly to the more common cutlery drawer, a strange sensation of fear clogging his throat as he sees yet more sporks, just as cheap and nasty as before. 

In a fit of urgency, he pulls out another drawer, one that should have spare napkins.   
Sporks   
Another one that should hold kitchen utensils.   
Sporks   
Moving into the dining room, the laughter and incredulity of society upon him as he opens the drawer that should keep the tableware for guests, and the drawer is filled with sporks at the bottom. 

He can't seem to help himself from checking another, morbid curiosity and a panic he has almost never felt in his life. Sporks tumble out, bulging from the drawer like some monster, spilling all around his feet, the cheap plastic crunching under his shoe, splitting into shards on the carpet. 

At his table, his guests are like a overactive side show, and he watches in horror as they attempt to eat with the things, soup is spilled, plastic snaps on pieces of meat, sauce spills over expensive clothing. A guest fumbles, the food upended and flying into her neighbours shirt. The guffaws of laughter as fine dining is turned into crass entertainment, pieces of meat are catapulted across the table and land on guests and, horrifically, in a sauce meant specifically for the fish. 

\--- 

Hannibal Lecter gasps awake. 

He lies there, sweat coating his skin. A nightmare, he understands now, as he forces himself to regulate his breathing. How… disconcerting. 

Forcing himself up, he strips the bed, then goes to shower, too aware of how his hands are trembling still. One might think if he was to have a nightmare at all, it would be about Mischa, but he has exorcised those many years ago. But sporks? Ridiculous. 

Dressing in fresh pyjamas, his hair still damp, he wraps himself in a dressing gown and pads quietly downstairs. A warm drink would be welcome, and certainly the familiar processes will help reassure his psyche of reality. 

It's as he is setting out the pan and about to get some milk out of the fridge that he hears a familiar car outside. A glance at the clock showing it to be just after 3am. Closing the fridge once more, he moves to the front door just as it is knocked upon. Opening it shows him the welcome sight of Will Graham, but one who appears to have come here unaware. 

"Will," he says, as much to draw the other man out of the daze he seems to be in. "Please come in." 

Stepping back and opening the door wider, he watches the other man startle at the sound of his voice, moving to enter even before he has regained his faculties, though when he does, as Hannibal is closing the door behind him, it is one of consternation over his own state. 

"I didn't wake you, did I?" The slightly shorter man asks, a hand running through his hair. He smells of sweat and fear and exhaustion. 

"Actually no, I was just about to make myself some hot chocolate," he says, using the conversation to draw Will away from the front door and into the kitchen with him. He has never been one to relish the company of others after a bad night, but he finds, perhaps, that Will's company might be the exception. He tends to be in most things, after all. "It seems we have both had a troubled nights sleep." 

It takes Will time to respond, his weary and burdened state laying claim to his acuity. 

"It's strange," Will says at last, milk enough for them both now heating on the stove, "I can't really imagine you being scared of anything. You are always so sure of yourself." 

"I am quite human, I assure you." 

Will gives him a wry grin as he gets out two mugs and the jar of hot chocolate he had made for just such an occasion. He can feel Will's gaze watching him, contemplative and quiet, likely finding some solace in watching him move about the kitchen with the serenity he is known for, just as it does for him tonight in performing the actions. 

"Will you tell me what you dreamed of?" Will finally asks, though from the way he asks it, it is clear he expects no positive answer. For Will to feel safe, control is something Hannibal has always wielded, first as his psychiatrist, then as a friend and partner he had come to rely on, but perhaps it is time to offer something more. A trust he would offer no one else. 

Mixing the hot chocolate carefully with the warm milk, he brings the results over to the counter where Will is perched on a stool, setting it down for him. 

"Yes," he says, watching as the shock of that declaration stalls the other man's hand as it reaches for the mug, "but not tonight." 

Will let's out a huff of wry amusement, lifting the mug to take a sip. Hannibal watches him, avid, as he consumes what he has offered. The other man's reactions rarely disappoint. Even bleary and exhausted as he is, the soft groan of pleasure at the decadent taste warms him. 

"Never a straight answer with you," Will says, amused despite his minor frustration, going back for another sip. 

"Where would be the fun in that?" He can't help but smile warmly at Will, sitting here in his kitchen, far too early in the morning, having come to him as a refuge. "And what of your own dreams? It seems as if Uncle Jack has been working you too hard lately." 

"It's just too many murders, too much pressure at once. Not managing to sleep properly isn't helping either," Will sighs, clearly frustrated. "The dreams are just more of the same. Classless murderers I need to catch before they add to their list. Dull but harrowing. There are two on the go right now." 

Hannibal hums, taking a sip from his drink, letting it slide over his palette, bringing with it tastes of Belgian chocolate with a hint of chilli and spices, just enough to help chase away the cold. 

"Jack relies on you a lot." 

A huff of annoyance from Will, though not at him. "Sure, when it suits him, and if it doesn't, well, I clearly amn't working hard enough." 

"It must be frustrating, not feeling listened to," Hannibal says, then before Will can comment on him sounding like a psychiatrist, he adds "Perhaps he will learn." 

He says it mildly, and whatever Will had been about to say is paused as he looks at him with some suspicion. 

"What are you up to?" 

The question makes Hannibal smile, deciding to take another sip of his drink rather than answering. He watches Will eye him suspiciously, but there isn't enough here to give him the evidence to guess. 

"Well, just try not to make my job more difficult, whatever it is." 

"I shall leave that solely in the hands of Agent Crawford." 

Will huffs, but seems placated, and they sit in the peace of his kitchen until their mugs are empty and both of them are comfortable. 

"I should go. Not going to get much sleep now, and if I head off now I can grab something to eat and get started on today's paperwork before all the distractions." 

This isn't an unusual statement by any means, but Hannibal knows that Will needs more respite, but he also knows where it is that Will is likely to visit for food, and tonight that thought sends a slight thrill of alarm through him. Usually he is more lenient with allowing William to visit such places, but tonight the thought of him getting food from such a place as an all night truck stop diner fills him with disquiet. 

Those are the sorts of places that give you plastic cutlery with your food. 

"I am afraid I must request you do not. You have not had enough sleep to drive safely, and the food such places offer is unlikely to bring you anything except an early cardiac arrest." 

It isn't particularly rare that Will stays overnight, but with his dogs in Wolf Trap, it is infrequent enough. Usually he only stays for dinner. 

"I am better at getting through work when no one is around, you know that." 

Will isn't flat out denying him, which means he has as good as won. It's likely he has little wish to go in early, and merely duty and the knowledge of what his day is going to be like is prompting him. 

"Indeed. However I am also aware that you work better when you have slept well and have eaten better. Go and shower, and get some rest, and I will make us breakfast at a more respectable time in the morning." 

He doesn't offer the guest room, though sometimes he does if Will is in a certain frame of mind to want solitude, but tonight isn't one of those nights, he can tell. Will watches him for a long moment, not like he is weighing up disagreeing, for they both know he will stay, but perhaps sensing that there is something else prompting his invitation tonight. He wonders himself. Perhaps there is some comfort to be had, having Will there tucked in against him, a reassurance that the man isn't out in the world, driving dangerously and eating out of a truck stop diner. He really needs to break him of that habit. 

Finally Will nods and shrugs, "Sure, that would be good. Thanks." 

"My pleasure, Will." 

\---- 

A couple of weeks later, Will Graham blinks back the recreations in his mind and lets out a breath, slowly standing from where he was crouched by the body. 

"What the fuck am I looking at, Will?" 

The relentless demand for answers that would not even wait for him to gather his thoughts. Jack, of course. 

"It's definitely the Ripper," he says, getting that verification out the way, knowing Jack won't be interested in listening to anything else he says before that. The man practically vibrates with rage at his side. 

The body on the ground is laying as if reclining, one arm positioned behind his head, the other laying lax at the side. Middle aged, and generally far more rotund than the Ripper usually chooses in a way that seems deliberate. Everything the Ripper does, of course, is deliberate. Resting on the stomach is what appears to be a large platter filled with Halloween candy. The whole scene looks like the man just gorged himself on too much sugar and passed out, if not for the fact his neck was snapped, and the platter was made entirely out of sporks, carefully interwoven together and anchored in the flesh of the stomach beneath. 

"The victim wasn't alive for this. It's too intricate to survive jostling. No way to transport something like this either, and it would have taken at least an hour. The location isn't important except to make sure he wasn't interrupted. The victim himself is important somehow, central to what is going on here." 

"So what is this, some kind of a joke?". Jack of course 

Will sighs, looking over the tableaux left for him, then back to Jack. "If it is, the joke's on us. I'm not sure we will understand the full picture until we know who the victim was." 

Jack grunts, deeply unhappy, but for the moment seemingly having gotten enough to not push for much more. Will shoves his hands in his pockets, warding off the chill of the evening. 

"You should probably be careful when moving it. Those sporks are likely to snap." 

A glance to Jack, a flicker of blue eyes behind heavy framed glasses, shows well enough the head of the BSU isn't really listening now. Will shakes his head a little, hunching his shoulders as he makes his way away from the crime scene to where Doctor Lecter stands, thermos in hand. 

"Sporks, Hannibal? Really?" he murmurs to the man, incredulous, but taking the mug of coffee offered. Hannibal's eyes crinkle a little as they both turn around to look back at the crime scene beyond, Jack already shouting at the various crew members to get the scene cleared up. 

It happens when one of the techs tries to move the candy from the platter. The lifted weight works like a cantilever on other delicately balanced sporks beneath, putting more pressure on them. 

One snaps. 

It works then, like a cascading effect between one blink and the next, cheap plastic snapping and upending, a piece of kinetic art that turns the innocuous platter into a maw of jagged teeth that swallow down the candy, deep into the depths of the corpse. Muscles and tendons that had been held back are released by the motion, snapping down and together with force enough to puncture what was beneath, a carefully hollowed out to allow space that is filled, while closing the gaping maw, the corpse twitching with the force. Vibrant orange icing, blood and squid ink erupt from inside the corpse, spewing forth with velocity to cover everyone in the immediate area. Cries of startled fright, revolution and outrage. Someone vomits shortly after. Jack roars, covered. 

Its chaos around the corpse, one that now lies still. The body is of Mr Kenny Lancaster, a man who is also not what he seemed; a businessman who dealt in child slavery beneath the veneer of respectability. A treat for the man standing beside Hannibal, who knew to respect his table, and who would see the recreation of old folktales for what they were. 

Will looks up to him as the main performance ends, a wry smile touching his lips. There is warmth there, in those blue eyes that always see so much. Hannibal smiles softly seeing it, knowing he is seen. 

"Happy Halloween, darling."


End file.
